


An Unfortunate Unveiling

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Madeleine Era, Mirror Sex, Power Imbalance, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As ever, Madeleine seeks to impress there is no shame in any of it.





	An Unfortunate Unveiling

**Author's Note:**

> Oof ow writer’s block can Suck An Ass. Jfc this is like the first thing I’ve put out since December I think. Anyway, here’s more thinly veiled (ha) projection of my kinks onto fictional characters. Enjoy~

As ever, Madeleine seeks to impress there is no shame in any of it. As he greets Javert at the door with a polite nod, as they retire to the fireside for quaint conversation, as Madeleine’s touch strays from less chaste implications until his hand burns at the small of Javert’s back, guiding him to the bedchambers… and as Javert inevitably capitulates, there is nothing to suggest his superior means anything more by this than exactly what it is - that it _is_ merely two men taking comfort from each other. There is nothing vindictive of the way Javert is kissed and, sometime later, pressed against the mattress, his spine made to curl, his chest heaving, his pulse stumbling as he plummets over the edge of the precipice excavated by dexterous hands and a clever mouth.

 

Of it all, there seems to be found only goodness, and Madeleine would have him believe that with every embrace of their bodies, but Javert cannot - _will_ not. No matter the devotion of Madeleine’s fingers and tongue or the smooth fit of his hips between Javert’s thighs, none of it can assuage the suspicions Javert harboured so vehemently before they began this strange pursuit of on another. Nor can he dispel them now what for every time Madeleine refuses his advances, every time he shies from Javert’s exploring touches, and every, _single_ time he refuses to undress.

 

He does, of course, but no more than is strictly necessary, and some nights - when taken with a particular mood equal in ardour and frustration - Javert is tempted to tear the fabric of Madeleine’s shirt from his back and see for himself, prove the shadows of his doubt are not specters at all, but raised, rifts of scarred white too cruel to be anything but ghosts of the lash.

 

All _that_ , of course, under pretense of grasping too hard Madeleine’s powerful shoulders as he’s fucked within an inch of his coherency which… wouldn’t exactly be difficult to feign.

 

But it would benefit neither of them if Javert were to unmask his mind, turning everything against his favor and earning him Madeleine’s own suspicions, or worse, revealing nothing after all, and then where would he be? Alone, yes. Loathed, certainly. He cannot fully relinquish himself to this impossible magistrate, nor can he accept him as such when his mind returns always to Toulon.

 

Thus it’s ever a vexing curiosity, their relationship and Javert’s disquieted instincts, but sooner would he resign as inspector than inquire openly to Madeleine his habits in their lovemaking. But _oh_ how it rankles, and sometimes he cannot steel himself against temptation. Sometimes he must try.

 

Tonight, it appears, he is afforded an opening. As Madeleine fails to secure his wrists above his head - his own bowed low between his shoulders as he moves atop Javert, their hips joined, their pleasures precariously mounting - Javert seizes the opportunity and ventures his fingertips at the hems of his superior’s shirttails, then under, then around -

 

Then a frenzy of motion, but too fluid to be a result of passionate spontaneity, and Javert finds himself suddenly straddling Madeleine who is now as Javert had been seconds ago - sprawled with his back to the bed, those imagined scars unreachable, and Javert feeling all the more powerless despite the way Madeleine appears almost demure beneath him.

 

“Is something the matter?” Madeleine asks, and Javert strains to hear his fear, his _terror_ that he was so nearly discovered.

 

There is nothing.

 

“No.” Javert manages to sound as impartial.

 

Smiling slow and inviting, Madeleine replies, “Good, I was interested to see you like this for a change, and I find I am enjoying such a view. Though your posture is as frighteningly stiff as if you were delivering a report. Shall we see if I can amend that?”

 

An answer was never expected, and Madeleine wastes no time in seizing Javert’s waist and rolling his hips upwards, effectively forcing from Javert’s mind all scheming thoughts and scathing disappointments until he is as promised, hunching forward in an undignified slouch, begging beside Madeleine’s ear for his release, receiving it, collapsing chest to chest, breath to breath, body to body, but no… not quite. For Madeleine is still wearing his _damn_ shirt.

 

There is no shame in it, but, regardless, Javert burns alive inside himself with doubt and anxiety and dread and embarrassment. In theory, he could end it all, could refuse Madeleine’s coy invitations, could return them to before when Javert rigidly delivered his reports once weekly and thought nothing of the mayor but perhaps that he was rather too humble for a politician. And then those thoughts turned to an unfortunate affection, then suspicion, and now they are a toxic amalgam of both, a sinister quagmire he sinks further into every evening they spend together, every evening he surrenders himself to unfathomable pleasure and suspects all the while the man inflicting it is a facade. Every evening he does not _know_ …

 

And so, the morning after he so stupidly revealed himself in his hopes to unveil Madeleine, Javert rises before the sun and sets quickly to dressing and quitting Madeleine’s home before he wakes. In this endeavor, he is most unlucky.

 

“Won’t you stay an hour yet?”

 

Javert freezes just as he shrugs on his shirt. He's sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Madeleine.

 

“You know I cannot,” he says, as brisk and cold as he dares. “It would be scandalous for anyone to see me leaving, and daylight makes that all the more a risk.”

 

“So you always say,” there is a soft creak from the mattress, and Javert imagines Madeleine leant upon an elbow, “but _I_ say it would make for something more interesting about town. The gossip is sparse as of late, and what exactly does Monsieur le Maire _do_ with his Inspector all night? That would excite idle tongues, no doubt.”

 

A horrid warmth flares in Javert’s stomach, at his cheeks, as Madeleine talks, and he’s tempted to round on him and shut him up in any way possible and no matter the consequences. His fractious, overtired mind supplies several unhelpful images, and he sets to working furiously at fastening his cuffs.

 

“Your agitation is plain, Javert,” Madeleine says, much less lenient. “Have I done something to upset you?”

 

Javert very nearly scoffs, but instead says, “No, Monsieur, I am just not eager to earn a reputation like that of the whores.”

 

He should have scoffed, that would have been easier to reconcile. He should now, supply the uncomfortable silence that settles with something of a reprieve, but all he can do is sit, frozen, waiting, and when Madeleine speaks, it is with care and caution as tender as Javert knows him truly not to be.

 

“Is that how you perceive yourself?” He asks first. “Is that what you think this is?”

 

Javert wishes the words were laced with anger - disappointment, even. _That_ he could abide. But Madeleine is none of these things, puts on such a sly ruse that, were Javert not versed in the workings of treachery and lies, he could almost mistake it for truth, could almost believe Madeleine is as genuinely concerned as his tone pretends.

 

It burdens his chest with a blunt ache, and his fingers curl to fists in the sheets as his superior touts his authority under guise of geniality.

 

“Surely you must see this for more,” that _superior_ is saying. “Do you not honor every invitation? Do you not also take pleasure in it?”

 

Daring, now, to sit up fully, move closer, kneel behind Javert with a warmth that should not comfort, Madeleine pursues with whispers just shy of too sharp.

 

Very much in spite of himself, Javert trembles.

 

“Javert,” Madeleine asks. “Is it not true that you give yourself to me willingly? I know not prostitutes who can put on quite so thorough a performance for paying customers, and I offer you no monetary recompense, so you will excuse me for disbelieving your self-abasement.

 

“So there is something else,” Madeleine continues, without pause, as though his words have no weight at all. “I know there is, and I wish you would tell me. The last thing I ever could want is to cause you distress, so until I know what preoccupies you from our pleasures, I cannot in good conscience allow them to continue. And if that results as the remedy, then so be it. I would rather your well being over anything that occurs in this bed.”

 

Petrified. Javert is utterly and hopelessly _petrified_ of and by this man, and, divorced of his volition, he turns and affixes his gaze to Madeleine’s, uttering a single, nigh desperate ‘ _no_ ’ that he doesn’t quite register until it echoes back in Madeleine’s surprised expression.

 

Javert regrets many things in this moment and can rectify exactly none of them.

 

“Well then,” Madeleine says, sitting back on his heels. “Enlighten me, Inspector, and let us see what can be made of your reservations.”

 

Surely he derides. Surely he is not so candid, knelt plainly on the mattress that had been groaning beneath the both of them only hours prior. Surely he means _none_ of this. But, illumined by the timid streaks of first sunlight touching through window, Madeleine’s face betrays no malice. All there is to see of him is honest, and Javert wishes more than anything he was blind to it all.

 

How can he be suspicious of this man?

 

_How can I not?_

 

How can he hope to compromise his superior who is so eager to accommodate?

 

_How can I catch him?_

 

How can he maintain any semblance of power over one who renders him helpless?

 

_How can I win?_

 

“You are correct,” he says, again without entirely registering his words.

 

“About what, exactly?” Madeleine asks, tone gently prying, and Javert feels picked apart by every syllable, the stitches of his resolve unwinding into a hopeless tangle from which can be plucked only one thread, one he might hope to suture a solution with but knows has equal chance to snare him all over again.

 

He inhales deeply and says, “About you, Monsieur. I fear I am too easily unsatisfied and cannot keep from wondering.”

 

“About what,” Madeleine iterates. This time it is not a question, and Javert turns from his superior’s still kindly eyes and stares at his feet planted on the cold floor.

 

At war, at an impasse, his mind cannot supply a reply that will not incite Madeleine’s own suspicions, so he doesn’t at all, standing and making for the chiffonier, instead. Under pretense of needing the attached mirror to finish dressing, he spares his superior neither word nor glance, though Madeleine is yet to be assuaged.

 

“It is something to do with our relationship, as much is clear,” he says, and in Javert’s periphery, he spies Madeleine rising, too, from the bed.

 

“But of that I cannot parse a specific issue.”

 

He lakes leisure in his approach, and Javert curses beneath his breath as his fingers stumble over his shirt buttons.

 

“Is it perhaps,” Madeleine says, somehow looming behind Javert despite his comparably diminutive height, “that I do not give you enough attention?”

 

Javert blanches, “Of _course_ not, Monsieur,” not _quite_ meeting Madeleine’s eyes, though it is impossible to miss his deepening frown.

 

And then it relaxes into something far too sly.

 

“But, _mon ami_ ,” Madeleine curls his palms around Javert’s hips and moves his words to Javert’s ear, “you said yourself ‘ _I am too easily unsatisfied’_.”

 

No right, Madeleine has _no_ right to do this, and Javert opens his mouth to say as much, but what comes, instead, is a broken sigh as Madeleine presses a kiss behind his ear, one hand coming undone of his waist to traverse his nape, his scalp, _tugging_ his hair to reveal more of his neck.

 

“I will not be upset if that is the truth,” Madeleine murmurs, and Javert watches, alight with shame and desire, as his superior undoes him in full view of himself.

 

“In fact, I might consider it a blessing to know. All the more reason to give you pleasure, is it not?”

 

“ _Monsieur_ ,” Javert croaks.

 

Madeleine slips his thumb along the band of Javert’s trousers and says, “Yes, Inspector?”

 

Damn it all. Damn _him_. This cannot continue. He must say something.

 

“You are wrong.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It is not as you think,” Javert says, similarly unthinking, “and I am embarrassed for the fact, but I simply cannot fathom why you lay me bare on your bed but refuse me the same dignity. It is _this_ , Monsieur, that bothers me so. Now if you would be so kind as to dismiss me, I would be most appreciative.”

 

His outburst has, indeed, deterred Madeleine’s efforts, but does not discourage the closeness of his hands, his lips, upon Javert’s body, and the two stand almost as one in the mirror’s envious glint. In this suspended moment, Javert sacrifices his chance to flee to instead observe their predicament.

 

He is little more than half dressed in his trousers and shirtsleeves, Madeleine less so and, given his height, Javert should have something of an advantage, but Madeleine is powerful in other regards, his arm a vice about Javert’s hips, hand steadfast in his, Javert’s, unruly hair.

 

After an arduous moment Madeleine finally says, “If I am correct in my understanding, you are discomfited by my being clothed when you come to me for your pleasures.”

 

Again, there is nothing unkind of his tone, but his choice of words unsettles Javert though he knows not why.

 

“Is that the crux of it?”

 

The fingers leave his hair, returning to his waist where they rest just against his hip, poised on the warmth they sear through the meager fabric of Javert’s own dress, and he only then realizes his gaze had been unfocused as it clears again and reveals his situation in the mirror.

 

“Well?” Madeleine says beside his ear, and Javert watches his mouth move in the glass. “Surely my prized Inspector has not forgotten the etiquette of interrogation.”

 

“Is that what this is?” Javert asks, his reflected expression belying every emotion his tone attempts to conceal.

 

“I jest,” Madeleine explains coolly. “But it is rude not to answer your superiors, as you well know.”

 

“I do,” Javert replies, not registering his words beyond that it is best to curb them to a minimum.

 

“Then explain to me, _Inspector_ , why it is you feel I should submit myself when it is you who pursues me?”

 

At last, a question, and its weight crushes the air from Javert’s lungs, but Madeleine is not yet finished.

 

“After all,” he continues, eyes upon Javert’s in the mirror, “it is you who comes to my home, you who continues to lay beneath me in my own bed. You deny this, but clearly such pleasures unsatisfy you, for what other reason could you want to debase me? What else could drive you to confront me when I have given you so much already?”

 

Nothing nothing _nothing_ in his soft, low voice is unkind. Shivers wrack Javert’s wiry frame, and were Madeleine not holding him, he might succumb to his obedient knees and beg stupidly to atone.

 

He cannot, though, he will not. There must be something else.

 

Looking to the mirror as though it might provide that alternative, he hangs his hands, loosely clasped, in front of himself, his head following suit when the mirror provides naught but his own haired countenance.

 

“I am sorry, Monsieur,” he manages at length.

 

Madeleine’s reply is immediate.

 

“Do you feel that is adequate?”

 

“ _Pardon?_ ”

 

Javert dares to meet his superior’s gaze. It is stern in its inquisitiveness, but worlds apart from Javert’s vindictive imaginings.

 

“Come now, Inspector,” Madeleine goads, smoothing his fingers down the sides of Javert’s hips, his thighs. “Ignorance does not suit you.”

 

Compelled on instinct to inquire, Javert entraps his queries and agonizes on a neutral response. All promise to inflame. He chooses the one that simmers.

 

“How would you have me apologize, Monsieur.”

 

“ _Pardon_?” Madeleine assumes that very ignorance, and yes, it is there finally in his tone, subtle but unmistakable in its vague mockery.

 

“Monsieur le Maire,” Javert amends, knowing now with this shift of formalities there are yet many reparations he has to make.

 

What eludes him, still, are the specifics. Intuition of context implies something far more salacious than a verbal reprimand (though Madeleine has succeeded at that already), and once more Javert’s mind capitulates to memories of the prior evening, of his failings to reveal Madeleine, of his succumbing to the man’s damnable prowess, and further still until his stomach plummets at the sudden image of himself, braced on clammy palms against the chiffonier’s sturdy oak, made to watch himself pitching forward in slight, sure rhythms as Madeleine takes him in front of the mirror.

 

Very much in spite of his shame, he’s tempted to assume position, though a regrettable part of him is appalled to desire such an intimacy completed with haste. With dawning loathing, he knows that much rather would he prefer to let Madeleine do with him as he wants, for as long as he wants. For like a slow but steadfast opiate, Javert cannot help how the man compels his lust and burdens his morals, cannot keep himself from craving it. In the upheaval of passions, he cannot think to suspect, and if he does, it is with clouded, surreal judgment. Such is his addiction to Jean Madeleine, such is his fate to return to him again and again, never to reveal anything more of him than he, Madeleine, is gracious enough to grant, and so what is one more vice upon Javert’s futile reputation?

 

So he asks again, enquires feebly to his superior what he must do. To his meager credit, he keeps his voice remarkably composed even as Madeleine’s fingers carve agonies against his thighs.

 

He stupidly thinks himself capable of withstanding the response.

 

“That depends, Inspector,” Madeleine _laves_ the syllables over Javert’s ear. “I believe, first, I must ask how would you have had me degrade myself for your pleasure? From that I can propose a proper punishment, but you were so vague in your previous instructions.”

 

Javert quite blanches as Madeleine quietly hums, an innocent sound were it not low enough to lurk in Javert’s swirling thoughts, turn them to an ever unnavigable muddle.

 

“Please, Inspector,” Madeleine insists, letting go Javert’s left thigh and putting the hand to work in a tangle through his hair. “Enlighten me.”

 

A sudden lance of delicious pain undoes Javert’s stupor, and he comes to with the realization his head is secured back at an agonizing angle, that there is similarly dangerous discomfort at the pulse hammering through his throat the cause of which, he soon learns, is Madeleine’s lips and teeth and tongue, and the ensuing _sharpness_ implies a blooming splotch of red as Madeleine releases his hold on Javert’s neck.

 

The mirror’s ever obedient shine produces a humiliating picture, and Javert would look away were facing his superior not the only other alternative. Why did he instigate this? Why could he not just stew in his frustrations and accept the meager satisfaction that yielding to Madeleine’s over-powerful body gives him? He knows there is an answer, he has conceived of it before. Presently, he cannot.

 

Damn it all. Damn it _all_.

 

“You are being terribly rude,” Madeleine says, tightening his grip in Javert’s hair once more. It is regrettably grounding.

 

It is a warning.

 

Javert needs not be told twice.

 

“What would you have me say, Monsieur le Maire.”

 

Javert watches Madeleine’s reflected mouth curl around a smile, waiting a moment before choosing its words.

 

“The truth works best, I find.”

 

“Does it now,” Javert very _nearly_ scoffs, but he could never reconcile it, for whatever advantage he believed himself in possession of has been thoroughly wrenched from his person. Jean Madeleine is nothing if not a thief, after all - at least in this regard. At least here, now, as his hands rove Javert’s body, Javert can be certain of his superior’s corruptions. At least in _this_ regard, there is conviction.

 

“Yes,” Madeleine answers. “Unless it is too difficult for you. I can respect reticence. It _is_ rather an embarrassing admission on your part.”

 

A dark flush spreads across Javert’s nose in the mirror, and he casts his eyes to his feet as though this will eradicate his visage from himself and Madeleine, alike.

 

To his concealed horror, Madeleine takes this as concession and continues goading.

 

“I believe,” he says slowly, “you asked after my refusal to remove my shirt during our evenings. Is that correct?”

 

The hand amongst Javert’s hair, turned kind for a small reprieve, curls at the nape of his neck and holds him there, keeping his head bowed forward with the slightest pressure - a noose sans promise of cincture.

 

“Yes,” Javert answers.

 

Madeleine hums thoughtfully as though unexpecting of such immediate compliance.

 

Then he says, “I both can and cannot understand your curiosity, Inspector,” and the game begins at last.

 

“And I say this,” he continues, “because I believe you are laboring under two misconceptions. I wonder, perhaps, if it is simply because you are unversed in intimacy. Or is it that, even here, you cannot abandon your stake as Inspector. Whatever the truth, I should like to discuss these issues and see if we cannot allay your discomforts.”

 

Accepting the inevitable does little for Javert but quell his initial nerves to a vague, bodily tremor, and the grip Madeleine secures to Javert’s shoulders well indicates he feels every shiver.

 

They meet eye to eye in the mirror, and Javert’s vision blurs to doubles as Madeleine says, “I believe I made clear your position in my presence, whether here or in my office, yes?”

 

Javert inclines his head.

 

“That your continued pursuit undoubtedly proves your rank to mine?”

 

Again, a feeble nod.

 

“And, really, Inspector,” he _pursues_ , hands splaying from Javert’s shoulders inwards, toward his collar, “is it truly such an issue? It seems to me such a trivial thing in light of your especial eagerness.”

 

“Monsieur,” Javert whispers, but Madeleine is not done.

 

“It is actually very amusing, that you knelt the first evening I invited you to my home and now think yourself of a position to find suspicious my dressing habits.”

 

Javert swallows thickly, considering his superior’s musings as Madeleine’s fingers consider the buttons of his collar.

 

Plucking the first one open with careless ease, Madeleine says, “I have almost every faith in you, that you do not truly wish to impune my authority.”

 

He pauses at the second button and recaptures Javert’s flitting eyes in the mirror.

 

“But even accidents must be amended.”

 

All rational thought has ceased, Javert ignoring his better sense for what use are they now? Madeleine has discovered him and for Javert to think otherwise of everything he says is simply too much. He hasn’t the strength. Let Madeleine do what he will, it can be no worse than the shame implicit in all of this.

 

“Allow me then,” he says nigh inaudibly, “to make reparations, Monsieur.”

 

For a moment, the mirror reveals no movement from either man, and then Madeleine tugs delicately at a third button, a fourth, fifth, a slow, methodical traversal of Javert’s chest until it is just barely exposed in the mirror.

 

“Your humility does you credit,” Madeleine says, letting go and stepping back with his head leant to one side. “Then I suppose it is not your instincts that hinder you so.”

 

Were he not incapacitated by Madeleine’s hands and words, Javert could fine triumphant solace in this statement, but an implication of more imbeds itself in the ensuing silence as Madeleine takes stock of Javert’s discomfited state.

 

“Is it that you have had no other, then?” He asks. “Is that why you give yourself so readily? Because you fear yourself so inexperienced?”

 

It is a perfect excuse, and truthful for the most part, but the embarrassment of such an admission prevents Javert from doing so at all. The better part of his pride cannot seem to debase itself even for the safety of his own ruse.

 

He remains silent.

 

Madeleine allows it, but only for a moment, and all too soon he says, “I have no issue with assisting you in these matters, Inspector. I am a patient man.”

 

_As am I_ , Javert does not say, though his skin alights with a shock of anxieties as Madeleine moves close again, sweeps his mussed hair across his shoulder, rests his lips against Javert’s exposed neck. The kiss is sore upon the flesh Madeleine already marred, but the gasp it elicits is far from unpleasant. Javert squeezes his eyes shut and savors the distant agony.

 

“Is this how you would have me, Inspector?” Madeleine’s voice thrums through the dark sensations. “Would you expose me like this?”

 

The weakly starched fabric of Javert’s shirt disappears suddenly, and gooseflesh runs riotous across his skin as the softness of Madeleine’s nightshirt presses to his bare back, as delicate, rough hands map his torso, lower, as stray fingers slip again into his trousers.

 

“Or would you let me help you.”

 

A retreat of word and touch alike earns a pitiful whine from Javert. Mortified, his eyes snap open, but it is only the beginning of his depravity. Immediately, they cast downward, and there, knelt at his feet - just as he himself had been that first night - is Madeleine, sat like an obedient dog brought to heel, a sinfully lustrous shine in his eyes that are not quite trained upon Javert’s own. They seem, instead, to be focused upon his bared chest, and before Javert can muster the coherency to step backwards, Madeleine rests his large hands around Javert’s torso in a grip too shy to ever be painful, leans forward, and places his lips against Javert’s naval. There they linger, exploring his skin, trailing visceral warmth in their wake, until a veritable conflagration burns low in Javert’s stomach. Abruptly aware of his state and sans any remaining volition, Javert grabs fistfuls of Madeleine’s hair and yanks his head back, panting heavily. The shock on his superior’s face is but a transitory thing, and it soothes to a sly wonderment within seconds.

 

“I daresay I was correct, Inspector,” Madeleine murmurs, smoothing his fingers where he had kissed, considering his efforts in very much the same way he does an exceptionally vexing report. “You are sorely unversed in receiving pleasure.”

 

“Monsieur…” Javert whimpers, unwinding his hands from Madeleine’s hair with uncharacteristic caution. “I am so sorry, please, _please_ , allow me to apologize.”

 

What that might entail, Javert hasn’t the faintest. All he knows is the burn of his body, the ache, his superior on his knees, the world on its head, the shame, the _shame_ of it all.

 

“Have I requested such a thing?” Madeleine asks.

 

His palms lay flat against Javert’s stomach, his intent writ plain across his placid, handsome face. He looks at Javert as one might when prostrated before a saint, though what does one do when it is the saint instead knelt for them.

 

Javert’s pulse takes a dangerous dive as Madeleine’s hands venture lower and slowly proceed to undo his trousers. All the air in the world cannot steady his swirling head, but he sucks in a fierce breath all the same, takes gentle hold of his superior’s face, strokes his cheeks with shaking thumbs, as he leans forward and, in turn, takes Javert into his mouth.

 

It is a warmth altogether divorced of the flames devouring Javert’s nerves, his inhibition, strange and wet and almost inadequate as Madeleine cannot take him all, but a hand soon follows suit after his tongue and lips, and, all at once, the heat scorches sweet and tense.

 

Unable to endure looking down upon his superior performing such a thing, such a thing he has only been privy to in dark alleys where lurk darker curs, Javert fixates upon the ever present mirror and its dutiful shine. There, he watches himself, watches Madeleine, observes the inelegant jut of his hip bones in Madeleine’s grasp, and the sure, steady rhythm of his head. Again without realizing, Javert brings his hands to those soft, brown curls, tugging at them as Madeleine does something exquisite with his teeth. His tongue soothes immediately after, earning a hitched keen from Javert. He will not last long. He prays none of this will.

 

He cannot ask this of Madeleine though, and, in fact, says nothing for the whole ordeal, thinks just as little, merely watches the mirror, the sear across his cheeks, the perspiration on his brow, his chest, the bobbing of his superior’s head accompanied by so many lascivious sounds. It feels as though he watches for a very long time.

 

At last, it is done, the snap of pleasure coursing through his undeserving body, and Inspector and Mayor alike share a long, desperate groan.

 

Javert has never felt lower.

 

Some unfathomable length of time elapses before either man does much of anything to remedy their predicament. Javert initiates, feels it is the least he can do, fixing his trousers before genuflecting and gathering his discarded shirt, offering it to his superior to clean his mouth.

 

“Please, Inspector,” Madeleine refuses softly, “do not be crude.”

 

Flushing miserably, Javert mumbles something even he cannot hear, stands, and hastily dons the wrinkled shirt. Twice he must attempt the buttons, and by the time he has himself in a facsimile of order, Madeleine has abandoned his deference and assumed a respectful distance from Javert.

 

Neither offers any further conversation, and Javert hurries on the rest of his clothing, not meeting his superior’s eyes even as he bows stiffly before departing the bedchamber. Madeleine does not follow him, and the morning beyond his home’s threshold feels almost to know of Javert’s indiscretions, his immorality, his great and utter _stupidity_.

 

Of it all, though, he is not mortified. Nor is he mollified. Really, the defeat is almost serene.

 

And so when next he appears, ever obedient, on Madeleine’s doorstep, when next they take to the fireside and then the bedroom, Javert divests, immediately, his shirt, his fingers shaking as he undoes each button, and the fabric sighs at his feet. Madeleine’s expression belies nothing of the implication, but, for the rest of the evening, his strong, broad hands do not once leave Javert’s chest, his back, and Javert abhors the stability it provides as he shivers beneath his superior. For it is fleeting and unsatisfying, and the moment he leaves Madeleine’s bed, his home, shame washes over him anew, shame for his accusations, for his desires, for his addiction to the man he can neither accuse nor rid himself of.

 

Madeleine has never, explicitly expressed his enjoyment with their activities, made apparent that he harbors no aversion to Javert. Only has he ever suggested satisfaction with his body, his sighs, the way his face twists almost as if in pain when he comes undone, though never in such a way as Javert has. Even that morning when he was confronted, nearly cornered, and bested Javert all the same, he showed naught but disappointment that gave way too quickly to his benevolence.

 

Javert so wishes he would nourish that, let it grow to a vile hatred so he might return them to their routine propriety, let them both wash their hands of the whole affair and forget they ever sought each other in such a manner. Maybe then, Javert could properly pursue his suspicions, maybe then his judgment would not war so with his conscience. Maybe then, something could result, but alas, Madeleine does not so much as mention that morning, and not once does he ever give Javert any reason to feel ashamed. Javert does all the same. He wishes he felt more.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that was like, 5000 words of filler all for a lil blow job scene. Anywho, lemme know what ya thought, my dudes ;>


End file.
